


Three Times People on Tumblr Wanted A Thing

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Prison AU, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some tumblr prompts! figured I might as well have them up here?<br/>A. Meeting in Prison<br/>B. Speaking Again After A Long Time Apart (Reichenbach Bach-Together)<br/>C. Masquerade Ball (Or How Irene Gave Sebastian to Jim)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting in Prison

Across the yard there’s a big blonde man with blood on his knuckles. He takes a drag of his cigarette, long dirty fingers hiding his jaw. He leans forward on the curb with his feet planted square on the ground in front of him, elbows braced on his knees. Over the collar of his regulation white undershirt Jim can see the lick of a tattoo; following the hard line of his tendon up towards his ear.

There are handcuffs around his wrists. They jingle softly to themselves as he lets the cigarette drop between his knees. Jim watches his chest swell on the inhale, straining the white buttons of his orange jumpsuit. Hold. Exhale. Soft white smoke in a thin narrow stream.

There are chains around his bare ankles, too. Even in the yard. Even when it’s supposed to be free time.

Jim has to have him.

**************

“He’s back from seg.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. Last time he didn’t last a week.”

The laundry room smells of hot cotton sheets, warm, fresh lavender, industrial steam. Jim pauses in the middle of folding a t-shirt, pale hands going frozen still on the white fabric. There’s a twitch of muscle in his shoulders, and then he might as well be a statue; eyes stretched wide as if opening his irises helps him listen.

They’re down the row; folding sheets into a pile. Two men: the smaller Indian, wiry, with a brutish look and a sharp scowl; the larger a skin, with a black Celtic cross and an 88 he doesn’t believe in tattooed on his hands.

“Heard he doesn’t get back out here much,” the smaller man says, a little nervous.

“ _Likes_ seg,” the skinhead shrugs. “Comes out to hustle and scrape smokes n’ gets himself thrown the fuck back in as quick as he can. Usually by beating the _fuck_ out of someone. Don’t fuckin’ start shit, man. He’s hard as hell and hot like ten fucking sirens. The guards stay on that shit like white on fucking rice.” He eyes the smaller man. “No offense.”

“Don’t you fucking Asian-joke me, you fucking skinhead motherfucker –“

Jim looks down at his hands. There’s almost no difference in colour between his skin and the sheets. He doesn’t have callouses. This is the most work he’s done with his hands in twenty years; Jim works better with other people’s hands, anyways.

He hopes they’re talking about his little blonde. He’d like that.

Jim smiles to himself in the hot, humid laundry room, and the expression is more than a little inhuman. His teeth glint, white and bleached like his bones have been left out in the sun. Nobody notices. Jim half-shuts his eyes, shading the world down to nothing but a soft fringe of lashes.

Prison might even be worth it, in the end.

**************

Wake-up. Roll-call. Rec. Work. Lunch.

The lunch line is alphabetical by cell-block. Jim’s stuck in with the white collar criminals – right behind MORGUSSUN, F. and in front of MORICE, R. They eat first, dangerous offenders second, a long shuffling line of orange men that snakes out into the corridor; spotted here and there by black-suited guards.

Whoever’s serving spaghetti has a length of iron pipe for a wrist, today, and the lines bunch up. There’s overlap. By the time MORGUSSUN, F. is reaching the counter, the dangerous offenders are standing two-deep by the double doors.

Jim recognizes the blonde by the sound of his chains. He tries not to let his shoulders go shift as those chains clink in the door, soft with each shortened step. No one else is cuffed. No one else needs it.

Jim’s fingers tighten on his plastic tray. He wants to look around. He _has_ to look around. His mouth dries barren just thinking about the blonde’s bruised and bloody knuckles, the faded black ink that traces his neck like a lover’s tongue. Jim’s skin feels light and just a bit too loose; like he’s going to move out of it entirely. What he wants to do with a thing like that.

Should he? He shouldn’t. But the line is so slow. There’s all the time in the world to look. MORICE, R. is big enough that no one can see Jim from the dangerous offenders line anyways. He shouldn’t. But he _could_ –

Jim bounces back and forth on his toes, and scowls. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. Oh, but –

Jim twists his head short and sharp on his neck, allowing himself the barest glance over his shoulder. It’s a quick, lizard’s flick of a motion, that wouldn’t stand out in a hundred years; just the usual hyped prisoner’s glance, checking that no one’s watching between your shoulder blades.

Only someone is.

Jim’s breath hisses over his teeth, and his stomach goes hollow. Blondie’s eyes are blue. So blue and pale that they must seem grey, only they’re _not._ Never something as boring as _grey._ They’re narrow little flecks of chemical flame in a stone face. Blondie has an aquiline nose that’s been broken a few too many times and a wide slash of a scowl, although his lips are invitingly full. He’s got a scar across his face like someone tried to cut his expression in half.

Blondie stands like a soldier, but his face says killer – Jim would bet a hundred puppies over a threshing machine that the army didn’t even know where to _start_ dealing with him.

And he’s looking at Jim. He’s looking. Really _looking._ He might even be able to _see_ Jim, through the stupid pretense of MORIARTY, J. MORIARTY, J. is a white-collar criminal who did nothing more than evade a few taxes he shouldn’t; but Blondie catches Jim’s eye, and smiles, and Jim has the feeling that all his dark and dirty secrets have been given away.

Oh. _Oh._

Jim simply _has_ to have him.

**************

Roll-call. Rec.

“Moriarty.”

A low rumbling voice like thunder or a big cat’s purr. There’s still a cigarette dangling between Blondie’s fingers, lit and burning down although he isn’t smoking it. Jim looks up across the picnic table. Blondie has to keep both hands awkwardly in front of him because of the cuffs, but he ignores that with perfect dignity. Jim feels a grin tugging across his face. Blondie wouldn’t _deign_ to notice that they restrained him. Of course not.

“You know my name,” Jim smiles upwards, shading his eyes with a hand.

Blondie looks impassively back down. “Saw you eyeing me in the lunch line.”

“Was that what that was?” Jim’s a little disappointed. _It was lightning,_ he wants to say, _that was pure electric-shock-therapy, dear, and you know it. That wasn’t **eyeing,** although, if you want me to be **eyeing** , I probably don’t mind…_

“Not very smart, are you?”

Jim’s eyes widen. _Oh dear._ He can’t help it. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles, but they erupt anyways; pouring out of him, around and over his fingers.

“ _Not very smart,_ ” he chokes.

Blondie scowls. It’s adorable. “Or you don’t have any friends here,” he growls, trying for threatening and ending up at sexually appealing, “They would have told you to stay the fuck out of my way.”

“Are you going to beat me up now?” Moriarty asks innocently, “Just to get yourself thrown back in solitary? Oh dear.” He’s still grinning widely. Across the table, Blondie’s muscles are loose; the kind of relaxation that trained martial artists achieve before a fight. Calm before the storm. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s Jim’s. Heart and soul.

“Thinking about it,” Blondie says.

Jim clicks his tongue. “I can see why you got the dishonorable discharge,” he tells Blondie easily, “Didn’t even buy a girl dinner, first…”

Blondie snarls. The last thing Jim remembers is two large, scarred fists, leaping over the table towards him. Chain shining between them in the afternoon sun.

**************

When they bring Blondie back from solitary, he’s got a bandage over his chest. Blood’s already seeping through to stain his orange jumpsuit, but the prison nurse will refuse to change the dressing. Better chance of it scarring, this way.

Jim knows that, because he gets what he pays for. And he can _afford_ to pay guards to carve and nurses to refuse; when he cares enough to want to.

The sky is cloudy, threatening to rain, but the metal of the picnic bench is still warmed by the morning’s sun. Blondie clinks across the yard and sits down cautiously across from Jim.

He looks Jim over; taking in the dark bruises, the still-split lip, the wrist in a sling. Jim smiles at him, and says nothing. Waiting. It’s up to Blondie to break the silence. After a moment, he licks his lips, and gestures at Moriarty’s chest.

“JM, I assume,” Blondie says tersely. He sounds like he’s trying very hard to keep from screaming. Jim appreciates that.

“Quid pro quo,” he replies calmly. “You _did_ beat me up, darling. I frown upon that.”

“They _carved it into my chest,_ ” Blondie accuses Jim, getting louder. “You had them _carve your fucking initials into me!_ ”

Jim says nothing. Blondie goes through several shades of furious, which Jim finds fascinating to watch – if a little unproductive. It gets dull fast. Jim drums his fingers on the table and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“I’m going to _kill you,_ ” Blondie snarls.

“No,” Jim replies, smiling to himself, “You’re not. You’re going to break me out of here. You’re going to follow me home, and follow my orders, and eventually you’re going to _beg_ me to carve over the initials myself, because you don’t want anyone to scar you but me.” Blondie opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Jim’s hand snaps over the table – quick as a striking snake. He grabs the chain between Blondie’s wrists and hauls him forward, until Blondie’s face is yanked right up to Jim’s teeth.

“You’re going to,” Jim breathes, into his mouth. There’s no air passing Blondie’s lips; his heart might have even stopped. Jim tilts his head, just a little, fitting them together; the way they might have been, if they were kissing. “You’re going to,” he promises, “Because you have never, _ever,_ met anyone who could break you, dear, and you’ve always wondered if you _could_. You’ll think you can beat me, at first. And by the time you realize it isn’t true, you won’t _want_ it to be…”

Blondie trembles, no more than the smallest quiver of movement, like a rabbit under a hawk.

Game. Set.

Match.


	2. B. Reichen-Bach Together

_Dear Jim,_

_I’m bored as tits and this goddamn fucking investment banker won’t move his bloody ass two fucking inches to the left so I can make his brain into wallpaper. My ass itches and my arm is asleep and if I have toes at all they’re not fucking talking to me. Who the hell schedules a fucking job on a fucking roof in goddamn fucking Moscow in January?_

_Do you remember that time in Rome when you brought the switchblade to bed? You put it to my throat and rode me. Each time I pushed up into you the blade pressed down in me, and your hands were slipping in my blood, and you couldn’t stop cutting. I thought when I came you might kill me._

_I’ve never felt so alive._

_Should have told you more often that you could take it out on me._

_Oh, I think he’s moving, hold on –_

_No, false alarm._

_You’re a fucking prick, Jim, have I mentioned? You’re a fucking prick._

_SM._

 

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_Someone just called me about a drug ring I didn’t know I was running and I’m 90 to 100 percent sure the address I gave them to drop it at was Scotland Yard. It’s the year anniversary, isn’t it? Have to give them a reminder, the fucking cockbags._

_I want a new house, if you’re listening. This one smells like sulfuric acid and I don’t know why._

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_WHY THE FUCK IS THERE LEGO ON THE FLOOR_

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_WE’RE GROWN ASS ADULTS WHY DID YOU EVEN OWN LEGO YOU TWISTED SHITSTAIN_

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_Ended up on a job in Central Africa tonight. Don’t ask me how. One of those hop-a-plane, kill-a-warlord things. Anyways. Finished early._

_It’s a nice night, I guess. Hot. Obviously. Just before three in the morning. There’s a fire over to my left, and a bit of gunfire – the thugs haven’t realized yet that I’m long gone, and even when they do they’re not going to look up here. I’m in some tree – dunno what it is, but it’s got branches big enough to use as couches. I could lift you up here and you could just sit. Without holding on. On top of the world, like. There’s nothing taller around. Apart from the fire there can’t be a light in fifty miles. You can see the whole sky, J. A fuckton of stars. Feels like there’s more sky here than there is in London. Feel like I could pick each star out in the Milky Way, bring them home to you._

_Or is it each galaxy? Do you see stars or galaxies in the Milky Way? Fuck, I don’t know. I just like the way they look, right? The stars. All shown off like this. Think you might like it._

_The stars are still the same, since you left. Seems a little weird._

_Guess I felt like they had changed._

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_I’m standing in line in the grocery store and the lady in front of me just asked if she could have all her stuff taken out of the bags and rung through again to double check the total should I kill her_

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_I do really like this store but come **on**_

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_Two year. Happy Anniversary. I dropped a dead body off St Barts this year. Thought it might be funny. Lot of running around and screaming so far, but no actual guesses as to who it is. Gunna laugh when they ID him by the face I left on Sherlock’s grave._

_Okay, they won’t laugh. **You** would have laughed. _

_All finished dumping all your science stuff out of the kitchen. I do like to cook, you know. You might even remember your food that used magically appeared around the house. We can finally clear something up: it was not magic._

_I wish I’d asked what you liked out of my cooking. Maybe so I could use it as leverage._

_I keep thinking out letters to you when I have a spare moment. Pretty sure you wouldn’t like them, if somehow you could read them in my mind._

_You would roll your eyes and call me a sentimental unprofessional piece of shit who can’t shoot to save his life and doesn’t deserve the charity you give him_

_you would do that_

_you know_

_if you were here_

_SM_

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_YOU LEFT A BLOODY FUCKING DICK-SHITTING THING OF SULFURIC FUCKING ACID IN THE MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING ATTIC IS THERE EVEN A SINGLE FUCKING ASSBACKWARDS REASON IN JESUS-DONKEY-FUCKING-CHRIST’S SWEET UNIVERSE THAT WOULD EVER BE A GOD-FUCKING-DAMN GOOD FUCKING IDEA_

_SM._

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_IT GOT ON MY FUCKING SKIN YOU FUCKING COCK GOBLIN_

_SM._

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_I’m still pissed about the fucking acid, first of all, you fucking prick._

_But_

_You remember when you first dragged me in, that first weekend, when you took me back to Conduit Street?_

_I was so fucked I could hardly stand and I wanted you dead like I wanted a decent meal or another hit_

_And you’d hidden all the guns in the flat but I found one anyways, a little pistol, a little .22 glock that you’d taped under the kitchen sink, behind the S-bend_

_You were in your office waiting in the grey suit with the blue tie, and I shoved the glock between your lips, just a little rough, and you moaned when it caught against your throat_

_Clicked the safety off pulled the hammer back_

_Your eyes went wide –_

_Playacting, again. You’d taken the bullets._

_“Never give anything a gun,” you said, “If you don’t like what they’ll shoot…”_

_I checked the mag on that browning in the morning before you left for work. Could have taken the bullets. Didn’t. Not my fucking fault that you’re a prick, but still. Saw you on the roof of the hospital. Thought, “could have taken the fucking bullets.”_

_SM._

_***_

_Dear Jim,_

_I just want you to know that Sherlock Holmes isn’t dead._

_So, you know, he beat you. It was for nothing, after all._

_Prick._

_SM._

_***_

It’s not raining. No pathetic fallacy, for Sebastian; that’s the sort of thing that heroes get. Heroes get the dramatic climax; the thunderstorm right when things are at their worst. Sebastian doesn’t know who the fuck is hero of his story, but it definitely isn’t him; so when he finally fucks up on a job, there isn’t a thunderstorm. It isn’t the middle of the night. He’s in the South Side, taking a shot, and it’s a beautiful day in late spring when the weather’s still holding on to nice. The sky is a flawless, cloudless blue, and it’s just warm enough where he’s set up on the roof that Seb’s only wearing a t-shirt and some factory-issue black fatigues.

He’s got a burner’s scope to his eye, and a cigarette jammed between his lips; smoking without using his hands. There’s a little bottle of whisky by his thigh, cold now but getting warmer. The target’s taking their damn time coming back home. Seb’s bored as shit, but that’s par for the course since Jim’s last little fucking job. Nothing’s as good, now.

Sebastian’s actually bored enough to be distracting himself, thinking. Bored enough to drift off and start wondering if he can convince the guy who hired him to indulge in a quick fuck after payment. Anything to stop feeling fucking dead for a moment, _anything_ to be present instead of writing letters in his head and dreaming about a past that won’t come back.

Sebastian shifts uncomfortably and snarls to himself.

He’s thinking, _Dear Jim_ when the black bag slips over his head from behind.

Sebastian yells.

He tries to struggle upwards and a boot plants between his shoulders, kicking him back down. Someone slips a thin wire around his neck and pulls it tight. Sebastian chokes, breath burning his throat, his lungs screaming. It’s not until he goes limp that another set of hands wraps around Sebastian’s arms and hauls him upwards. They’ve got him by the shoulders. Wrists. Ankles. _Dear Jim, You’re going to fucking kill me. All these years and I get caught with my pants fucking down, watching my scope while someone sneaks up behind me. Suppose I’ll see you soon. Try not to gloat. SM._ Seb’s dragged down the stairs by enough men that he doesn’t stand a chance of getting free. Doesn’t stop him from trying, though. Seb’s reasonably sure that he leaves one of them dead on the threshold.

The men kidnapping him are professional enough not to leave their dead behind. He can hear them drag the corpse into the same vehicle they lift him into, without a single complaint or hesitation.

Sebastian’s kidnappers work silently; the only sounds they make are grunts or cries when he lands a lucky blow. They’re wearing gloves. He can feel the rough grips pulling at the fabric of his clothes. Smart, that. Smart that they pack up his gun and bring it with them too. Everything they _do_ is smart, scary smart, every action executed like flawless clockwork.

_Dear Jim, haven’t seen anyone work this well together since you were running the show. I’m a little bit in over my fucking head. Advice? SM._

Jim’d say, _you’re supposed to be the best, aren’t you? Act like it._ and make Seb figure shit out himself.

From the length of the car ride, by the time they let Seb out of the car there’s no one around to hear him scream. They zap-strap his hands behind his back and shove him forward. The gravel they walk him down is loud enough to count. Six men; two ahead, two behind, one with a hand on each of his arms. There’s more still getting out of cars, by the slamming doors. Seb supposes he should be flattered.

_Dear Jim, they have no fucking idea._

Six isn’t nearly enough to save them. He’s going to kill them all. Seb knows that already; a cool, cold certainty in his stomach. They’ve reminded him of Jim, and that’s enough to tear them apart for.

When they finally tie him into a chair in the center of a room that’s echoey enough to be empty, Sebastian sighs.

“Alright, boys,” he says to the room in general, “Glad we all got to be this fucking cliché. Now, if you don’t mind, you can take the bag off, give your demands, and then I can kill you and get on with my day.”

“Well,” drawls a voice that stops Sebastian’s heart, “You know, I _could…_ ”

_Dear Jim, you can’t, you’re dead._

“…But I don’t really _want_ to.”

Someone, _someone,_ that impossible person, walks over the floor and squats down in front of Sebastian. He can tell from the creak of shoe leather, the whisper of fabric. Sebastian strains, but he doesn’t manage to do anything but make the ropes binding him cut further into his wrists.

“I want you to do it with the bag _on_. Won’t that be fun? In fact – ” fingers snap in front of Sebastian’s nose – “Why don’t you do it all for yourself? Take the bag off. Tell me my demands. Then you can kill them all, and we can get on with our lives…”

Sebastian finally manages to get his mouth working again. “You’re dead,” he says, stupidly.

“Mmm…” Jim replies thoughtfully, “That’s odd, I hadn’t noticed.”

Something’s eating Sebastian – starting in his stomach and working its way out. “You shot yourself.”

“Well…” Jim laughs.

Sebastian’s stomach clenches. “You _died._ You shot yourself in the bloody fucking head three years ago, Jim, you left your _fucking corpse_ out for me to find.” They’ve tied his hands behind him, probably because Jim’s giving him a fighting chance at getting out. Seb picks the loose seam on the belt of his jeans and starts working out the razorblade he keeps there.

Jim sighs. “I _did_ want to do this properly, dear, if you’ll stop being so fucking stupid for long enough, I think we can have _fun._ ”

Seb works the razor out of his seam and drops it into his hands wordlessly. He starts cutting through the rope, sawing it clean.

“Don’t be _cross,_ Sebastian…” Jim is frowning. Sebastian can tell by the sound of his voice. Now whether or not Sebastian _cares…_ The rope severs with a sharp snap. Sebastian gets his wrists apart. He grabs the bag on top of his head, pulling it off and standing in the same motion. The chair’s legs squeal as Seb’s motion pushes it back across the floor, then there’s a loud clatter as it falls. After the darkness of fabric Sebastian has to screw up his eyes, and he still can’t quite see right.

Jim stands up slow. Dark hair. Dark suit. Like a shadow as he rises off the ground, smooth and controlled.

Sebastian’s stomach roils and turns, so hot his skin feels cold. Jim looks up. Meets his eyes.

God, Jim’s eyes. Those featureless dark holes, framed in dark lashes so thick they’re like a permanent smear of kohl. Sebastian remembers them hollow and empty. Remembers Jim smeared over the pavement, _dear Jim, I’ll never see those eyes again,_ oh god _._ He thought Jim was gone.

Sebastian doesn’t know if he’s gone still and stopped breathing or if it’s just that time has momentarily been put on hold. His head swims dizzily. There’s too much blood in his temples. Jim finishes straightening up. His chin rises, jutting out defiant and proud.

“Been a while,” he says, trying so hard to hide it that Sebastian almost pities him. The little freak’s predictable, even if the rest of the world would find that hard to believe. Jim has this way of holding his shoulders when he’s nervous about one of his gambles, tight and close to his ears. He’s _worrying._ Sebastian’s hands ball into fists at his sides – resisting the urge to do anything until he figures out exactly what it is he wants to do. His fingernails dig into his palms. He realizes that he hasn’t said anything – Jim’s getting tenser by the minute, slipping over the edge into terrified. There’s a wide line of white around Jim’s irises.

It occurs to Sebastian that _Jim_ doesn’t know what Sebastian wants to do either, and that _is_ new.

Sebastian wants to grab Jim and slam him up against the wall. He wants to kiss Jim vicious, kiss him until he’s violent and greedy and senseless. He wants to murder his way through Jim’s new henchmen, murder anyone who knew his _Jim_ was alive when Jim had the balls to keep Sebastian in the dark.

Sebastian wants to slide his thumb over the nervous quiver in Jim’s lip.

He wants to kill Jim again, for lying to him.

They’ve been staring at each other for long moments in this awkward, awful silence. Even Jim’s got to be wondering if he’s still got Sebastian on a leash. Three years. Three years where the world was dark and colourless, dragging itself by day by unremarkable day.

Jim put him through that. It would happen again without Jim.

Sebastian grits his teeth _._

“Say something.” Jim falters. His eyes are wide, scared where only Sebastian can see. And that makes up Sebastian’s mind. He’s not going to yell. He’s not going to attack Jim. But _fuck_ if Jim’s getting off scot free. “Say something,” Jim repeats, quieter.

“Goodbye,” Seb growls. He turns on his heel.

And he walks away.

***

_Dear Jim,_

_This is for being dead. See you tomorrow. I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be **walking** for three years._

_Prick._

_SM._


	3. Chapter 3

Midnight. Outside Kandahar. The stars are so bright and wild they look like a fireworks show that someone’s put on pause. Outside the CHU’s circle of ugly LCD lights, it’s pitch black. The wind whispers to the sand, carding long fingers through the moon-white dust. It’s lonely-dark in the desert, the kind of dark that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

Sebastian’s smoking some god-awful filterless cigarette that one of his buddies filched from the Iraqis, sitting where only the very edge of the light can touch his back. The rest of his squad is over at the mess-hall, watching a movie piped in from London with shitty sound and worse picture quality. Sebastian’s out here, staring at the dark. What does that tell you about him?

Someone, way out there in the blackness, is screaming. High and wild and more than a little bit insane. Sebastian doesn’t understand the language they’re using to call for help. He takes another drag of his cigarette, rolls it back and forth between his stained yellow fingers.

He can’t feel anything. He’s dying, he thinks. Slow and steady.

*********

Just inside of oh-six-hundred hours, at the roadblock outside Iraq’s Greenzone. Sebastian’s got his back propped up against a one-thirteen with his elbows on his knees, hoarding a few inches of coveted shade. Two American soldiers up ahead of him have a woman in a niqab on the ground and are kicking her, over and over, in the stomach. She’s begging them to stop, helplessly, pitifully. She was screaming, but she doesn’t have the strength anymore.

Sebastian licks his dried lips and wishes he had a cigarette. The sand makes everything taste of salt.

The two Americans have torn the woman’s niqab, exposing her bare legs. She’s wearing white gym socks underneath her concealing black robe, and has beautiful skin. It’s splotched black with bruising.

Sebastian watches with disinterest as the American kicks her again before tearing the veil away from her face.

“We’re trying to _free_ you,” the American soldier spits. He’s a young man, not halfway through his twenties, with light brown hair and too many freckles. His ears stick out from his scalp. He carries his assault rifle slung low and leaning forward over his hip, finger on the trigger at all times. “Show some _fucking_ gratitude.”

“I’m so tired of these fucking burka-bitches,” the other American complains. People waiting in the long line to get into the Green Zone send fearful glances up at them; not too lingering, in case the Americans notice. In the shade, Sebastian fans himself with a hand, watching idly. The woman who was wearing the niqab clutches at the fabric around her thighs, trying to bring it back together over her exposed legs. With her face uncovered it’s clear she’s older than Sebastian expected; in her forties, maybe, but definitely not this side of thirty. Her face is pale and blood-drained, but completely dry. There aren’t even tears welling in her eyes.

She looks up and sees Sebastian. Her eyes blaze with prideful, determined defiance. She looks like she’s daring him to stay where he is. Her lip is split and her cheek is bruised, but she’s got her jaw set high and strong. Sebastian likes her. As much as he likes anyone. The people in the Green Zone line inch forward shuffling step by shuffling step, glancing at her as often as they dare but not brave enough to help.

“Always wondered what they had underneath those fucking veils…” the second American jeers, reaching for the woman on the ground at his feet. He’s a grunt, through and through; short-cropped black hair and pale blue eyes with eyelashes that look too long for his square face. There isn’t a lick of pride or resolve in him. Something about his expression speaks to cunning rather than intelligence – dishonesty rather than determination. Sebastian’s stomach roils in distaste. It’s that, more than anything, that makes him stand. His boots crunch in the dirt. It’s so hot that Sebastian can feel the exact second his skin leaves the shade

The woman in the niqab starts to crawl, dragging herself arm over arm away from the two Americans. No one in the line moves to help her. No one moves to interject.

Sebastian feels nothing.

But the black-haired soldier has a low, brutish look, and his freckled friend doesn’t seem much better. On the ground the woman in the niqab looks up again; teeth bared, damning for not helping her. She’s furious; Sebastian can read it in every line of her body.

She looks like she doesn’t _want_ to get free – she wants to get _even._

“Let’s see what she’s got…” the black-haired soldier says eagerly. He leers at the woman in the niqab, even as she curses and tries to pull herself faster away from his approaching feet.

The black-haired soldier and his friend start forward. Sebastian doesn’t warn them off. He just draws his gun.

Sebastian Moran owes his dishonorable discharge to two bullets in the center of two American soldiers’ skulls. It would be murder, but the other Iraqis refuse to say what happened and Sebastian insists it was self-defence.

The woman in the niqab never thanks him. He never wants her to.

*********

When Sebastian gets back to London he nearly goes insane from the colorlessness of it all. Sitting. Eating. Sleeping. Wasting time and breath. The dark of the cities isn’t the lonely, cold-dark of the desert; it’s a warm dark, a vibrating colourful dark that beckons from every doorstep. Candles flicker on glitter and sequins and _SWAG_ t-shirts. It makes Sebastian want to vomit.

He misses the stillness of the desert. He misses the emptiness of it, like the CHU had sat on the edge of the world. But most of all, above and before _anything,_ he misses the feel of a gun in his grip and his pulse pounding hard against his throat.

He thinks he’ll die from it; from having _nothing_ again. Deceased at thirty-five, dead by inches; slowly grinding himself down until he’s grey and boring and there is nothing left in him. Sebastian looks into the future and he sees himself in the Americans; bored, cruel, and dangerously clever. There’s nothing else.

And that’s when he hears about _her._

They call her the Woman. They say that if you’ve got an itch, the Woman can scratch it. Anything you need. Doesn’t matter how foul it is, how rank, how completely filthy and utterly taboo your fantasy; you can’t shock the Woman. You can’t surprise her. And if most people can’t afford to _pay_ her, either, well, that’s just the way the Woman screens her clients.

Sebastian isn’t going to complain.

He hears about her from some public-school holdover - one of the view of his family-picked friends he still keeps in touch with. Old guard. ‘Good blood.’ Sebastian doesn’t give two shits about the guy, only he’s good for certain vices - and that’s how Sebastian ends up with a number.

Six PM the next Saturday night Sebastian stands outside the Woman’s address with an Iraqi cigarette jammed between his lips – god knows how he got a taste for the fucking things, but they burn his throat and make his tongue taste of ash, and that suits Sebastian better than civilization. He’s dressed to pass as human; black shirt, dog-tags tucked under the V neckline. It’s a pretty good imitation of normal, but there’s still a gun on his hip beside the four-figures in cash in his wallet.

Sebastian hasn’t so much got an _itch_ as he’s a meth addict scratching the skin off his arms to get at the things underneath. The Woman could have quoted him seven figures, and he would have paid without asking. He doesn’t give a shit what she charges; they say she’s dangerous. That she can make you _afraid_ again. The ashes from Sebastian’s cigarette are startlingly dark against the white steps of her porch.

 _"Are you going to come in?"_ asks a calm voice over the intercom. Posh accent. Clipped consonants. Sebastian takes a deep breath. She sounds like every flavour of woman his father wanted him to end up with, and all of a sudden he’s thinking his money might be better spent on an unreliable pistol and some bullets for Russian roulette. He doesn’t say anything. He ashes his smoke on the porch again, and thinks. There’s silence in Belgravia. Down the road, someone’s yappy dog starts up, but it’s a nice neighbourhood. The dog is quietly shushed. Sebastian can feel the chill, peaceful air on his skin and it makes him want to scream.

She might be his last shot. “Haven’t decided yet,” he says finally, to no one in particular. A discrete little camera, set up in the white molding, focuses on him. Sebastian looks back at it; the unblinking, pitch-black eye whirring as it brings him into focus.

 _"…Interesting,_ " the intercom says finally. _"You’re my Saturday, are you? For you, darling, I think I may have something better than the usual slap and tickle. Do wait there. I’ll be down."_ The intercom buzzes back out of life and into silence. Somewhere down the street a lamp buzzes to life, electrical sound on the air making Sebastian jump. Sounds a little like the LCD’s at CHU.

 _What the fuck am I doing here, anyways?_ She’s a high-priced whore you can’t sleep with and he’s not going to find gunfire on her porch. Sebastian shuts his eyes. _Stupid._ He’s not going to find what he’s looking for here. He’s not going to find what he’s looking for _anywhere._

"Look," he tells the intercom, "This was a mistake, I’m -"

That’s as far as he gets. The beautiful, pristine door opens and out steps a beautiful, pristine woman. She’s not classically pretty, as classically pretty girls go; her mouth spoils that, a wide, sharp slash in her narrow, angular face. She’s past thirty, and looks it; then there’s the high cheekbones and narrow eyes that give her the air of a fastidious cat.

But Sebastian wouldn’t count her out of a beauty contest anyways. The dark sweep of her lashes is so thick and shadowy as to count as makeup on its own. Her lips are a perfect crimson, flawless, bright against her smooth pale skin. She looks like she was painted in three colors, chestnut and ivory and blood. Her dress is white, and only a shade or two off of her skin.

She’s wearing five-inch stiletto heels and barely comes up to Sebastian’s breastbone. Her eyes drag up him, slow and intimate, taking her time looking him over. Against his will, Sebastian feels his chin lift; his breathing go shallow.

And that, _that_ is worth the price of admission. When Irene looks him up-and-down something in Sebastian’s spine bristles; a combat instinct, long out of practice, waking up. The skin on Sebastian’s hands tingles in over-sensitive awareness. Like it’s itching for a gun.

"Irene Adler," she says, holding out a hand. Sebastian takes it on instinct and she immediately clicks her tongue in obvious disapproval - sharp, and loud enough that he goes frozen still. Something screams at Sebastian not to piss her off. Nevermind that she’s five-five on a good day and built of toothpicks - Sebastian watches her smile slide purposefully across her lips and it makes his spine go cold. She looks like a cat on cream, a cougar on a startled deer. " _That_ won’t do at all,” she purrs. “I’m not your commanding officer, Mister Moran, and I’m not _one of the blokes,_ either.”

Sebastian looks down at where he’s got her hand clasped; delicate porcelain fingers caught in his thick slab of fist. She doesn’t give him time to think about it.

"You can take my hand like a lady’s," she tells him calmly, "Or you can get on your knees and acknowledge me that way."

It comes out so smooth and even she might be stating the time of day. Sebastian’s heart catches in his throat. His eyes jump up to hers and there - _there_ -

Her smile. Sleek and gloating and _knowing,_ and _Christ,_ Sebastian’s skin is prickling like she’s set him on fucking _fire._ _How the hell did she -_ Sebastian draws a shallow breath.

"Cat got your tongue?" Irene asks, dropping his hand and sweeping by without waiting for an answer. "We’re taking my car. I’ve brought a change of clothes for you. I’m taking you to a very _exclusive_ party, dear thing, and _yes,_ you should be thanking me.”

Sebastian turns to follow her as she glides down the steps to the street. She might as well be wearing sneakers for all the notice she takes of her sky-high shoes. With each step she sways, ass pressing against the skin-tight fabric of her white dress, and Sebastian’s mouth goes drier than desert sand.

True to her word, a car is pulling up; something low and dark and gleaming. Sebastian’d usually be able to give make and model from that much of a glance, but for some reason, he’s tunnel-vision; eyes for Irene only.

And from what he can see, she’s not carrying more than a handbag. Sebastian wrestles his voice back from wherever it’d gone hiding. “What do you mean, you’ve brought a change of clothes for me?”

Irene clicks to a halt on the sidewalk outside the car and turns back to him, one eyebrow raised in expectation. Her white dress does absolutely nothing to hide the curve of her hips, the flat plane of her stomach. Sebastian’s not sure if the thing burning in his gut is frustration or arousal. Or fear.

_Maybe she is worth the money._

"You can’t wear _that_ to a costume party,” Irene tells him, with such obvious condescension that Sebastian’s hackles almost physically raise, “And if I’m going to use you as a party favour, you’re going to have to look like you’re _worth_ giving away.”

Sebastian opens his mouth. Irene frowns, the slightest moue of her lips so as not to leave lines.

"Not up for _discussion,”_ she tells him. It’s not so much _sharp_ as it is cutting-cold; frostbite cold. Christ, that woman’s voice could make a man’s fingers fall off. “Get in the car, _Moran._ ”

Looking back, Sebastian will see it as the last chance he had to save himself.

He licks his lips.

He gets in the car.

*********

Irene draws a pair of lacy, black, _satiny_ panties out of her handbag. They look too big to be hers. They look -

"Oh no," Sebastian says. " _No._ " Irene just raises her eyebrows. She’s sitting on the other side of the bench back seat, her legs delicately crossed at the knee, her heel threatening to scrape the leather of the seat in front of her. She holds the panties out dangling on one finger towards Sebastian, delicate, barely managing to reach the half-way point between them.

"I don’t know who the fuck you think I am - " Sebastian snarls at her, crossing his arms over his chest, "But I’m not a _fucking_ cross-dresser.” The spark of heat in his stomach is definitely frustration, now. Moving the hell over into anger, and fast. Damned if he’s going to _pay_ to put up with this shit. And damned if he’s wearing _fucking_ panties.

"They come with a collar and leash," Irene explains, with a wicked glint in her eye, "And it isn’t _cross-dressing_ if they’re men’s underwear.”

"Go to hell," Sebastian tells her flatly, "If I’m paying you, I’m - "

"Now understand me," Irene cuts him off, as smoothly as if he hadn’t been talking at all, "You came to me for a reason, and if you do as I say you _will_ go home satisfied.” Her eyes are black and glittering, all seductive promise and absolutely no mercy. “You _will_ also strip, and put these on. You will fasten the collar around your neck, and if you fight me, you _will_ thank me for every lash I put on that pretty little ass of yours.” Sebastian’s breath hisses over his teeth. He tells himself it’s because he’s furious. Irene leans forward in her seat, just a little, just enough that the shadow of her collar-bone is visible above the neckline of her dress. The hand holding the panties - the fucking _panties_ \- doesn’t waver. “You will because you _want_ to, Mister Moran. You want to be my pretty little thing on a leash tonight.”

Sebastian grits his teeth. “And why the hell would I want that?”

Irene smiles. Sleek and self-satisfied. She leans back. “Because I don’t scare you, Mister Moran, but if you do as I say I will introduce you to someone who _does._ ”

Sebastian stares at her. Her words have a low, sweet rumble to them; like a purr. Like a promise. She doesn’t sound like she doubts it.

Sebastian remembers what it was like to be afraid. He remembers what it was like to be alive. He shuts his eyes, curses himself. And takes the delicate lace from Irene’s fingers.

*********

It’s surprisingly cold, with no clothes on. The car was heated and Sebastian doesn’t realize until his bare feet hit the cool cement of Conduit Street just how much he was relying on that. Pale hairs rise in goosebumps all over his exposed chest and thighs, everywhere that isn’t melted into thick white lines of scar tissue. He takes a deep breath. The collar around his neck cuts it off short, harsh leather digging in to his throat. The weight of the clasp jangles between his collarbones; metal still warmed by the car. The leash swings free for a moment.

He can hear Irene getting out of the car behind him. Deep breaths. His entire spine is crawling, now, his back awash with nervous anticipation. Christ, if it wasn’t so good, he’d want to kill her. Sebastian shuts his eyes.

He’s trying desperately not to think about the rough lace rubbing against his cock. The panties are just a little bit too tight. It’d be painful, if it wasn’t fucking perfect. He could kill her for that. The smooth rub of the satin strokes down his shaft, and just around the tip - just where his cock is pinned to his body - the lace feels like calloused fingers, gripped tight.

"That’s a good boy," Irene purrs. She steps in front of him. She’s wearing a half-mask now, a Venetian thing, embroidered swirls and glitter swept into three points up through her dark hair. A swan’s mask.

"Costume party?" Sebastian asks. His voice is rough. He knows it. Maybe it’s not that the air outside is cold; maybe it’s that his skin feels hot. Irene’s got a flogger dangling from her wrist, and something dark and glittering in her hands. Sebastian’d be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about the flogger. The sharp lick of it down his back. The quick snap of pain from a strike. She hasn’t hit him yet, but Christ -

He can almost feel it.

His mouth is dry. He might want it, actually. Might be _craving_ it. Shit, if she said to beg -

"Final touches, shall we?" Irene asks. She holds the dark thing in her hands up to him. It’s another mask; full-faced, this time, with a short muzzle and a nose picked out with jet. Sebastian bows his head, and Irene secures it; pulling the black ribbons until they catch and pull at his blonde hair, tiny little fire-work sparks of pain.

"Are you ready, dear?"  Irene asks.

"Bow-wow," Sebastian says. It makes her laugh; she throws her head back, baring her throat, and Sebastian wants badly to rip off his mask and sink his teeth in it. Deep, until she bruises, until she bleeds and screams his name.

Irene picks up the leash and starts toward the door in front of them without another hesitation, the aftermath of her laughter still playing around her lips. Sebastian gets a glimpse of them in the building’s glass walls before they enter the lobby; Irene small, and pale, and fragile-perfect like a blown-glass sculpture. On her leash Sebastian looks like a fairy-tale monster; his chest scarred with three huge swathes of broken skin, his skin taut over muscle and bone, the dog-mask covering his face. Only his eyes are visible; and in the dark reflection they’re nothing more than hungry shadows, set deep behind his muzzle.

Sebastian feels half-drunk. He feels numbed. Like all of his senses have been dampened by the gentle tug of the leash guiding him. Inside the mask his own breath is hot on his face and his vision is impaired enough that everything is cast in sultry shadows. The marble of the lobby is warm and smooth under his feet, and does nothing to ground him. He might as well be drowning. Sebastian takes a deep breath.

 _Do not, I repeat, do **not** get aroused,_ he tells himself.

"Steady," Irene murmurs. She slows, letting him draw closer, and the tips of her flogger brush against Sebastian’s bare thigh. He shudders. "You haven’t even seen the headlining band, yet," she tells him, with amusement.

Up ahead there’s a crowd. Loud music. Dancing. It’s all Sebastian can tell.

Behind the privacy of his mask, he might be whimpering.

*********

"My dear," says a voice, low and deep and round, "What _ever_ have you brought me?” Irene turns them. Sebastian struggles to see through the narrow eye-slits of his dog mask. There’s a slender man standing in front of them, some domino mask shoved back on his dark hair, one hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers. His head is tilted to one side like a curious cat, pink tongue poking out between his teeth.

"A peace offering, James," Irene replies. Sebastian’s eyes jump to her immediately.

It’s her voice that gives it off. Not confident, anymore. Not sure. Irene - perfect, in control, _flawless_ Irene - sounds terrified. Someone else might miss it; but Sebastian’s learned the hard way how to notice that, and the tension in her voice might as well be screaming _don’t shoot._ Her hand goes tense on the leash; taking a better grip, for all that she tries to force her shoulders nonchalant. Color has drained entirely from Irene’s face, leaving nothing but her scarlet lips and two pink spots of flush, high up on her cheekbones like fever.

 _James_ , at first glance, doesn’t look like much; pale, like Irene, with deep, hollow eyes that look like they’ve been carved out of his face. He slouches casually, ignoring his priceless charcoal grey suit like it’s gym clothes. There’s a wide-berth around him on the dance-floor, but that might not be much more than respect.

Only there’s something about him that has Irene terrified, and one by one, the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck are rising. He’s suddenly very glad of the mask; not just because it’s keeping him from being recognized as _that dude in panties._ Sebastian has the same awful, unignorable feeling that he had when his patrol got ambushed outside Kandahar; the same creep to the skin under his fingernails that he remembers from sniper-fire.

He might not be breathing. It’s hard to tell.

All of a sudden James’ hand snaps forward. Sebastian can’t leap back fast enough to avoid it. The motion is so quick it blurs, James’ pale fingers darting through the air like lightning. Sebastian’s breath catches in his throat. He’s never seen anyone move so fast, _ever_ , not even under fucking _machine gun fire._ James wraps his fist around Sebastian’s leash with a shark’s smile, wide and devouring and absolutely humourless. Then he pulls. The thick leather of the collar cuts hard into the back of Sebastian’s neck as he’s yanked downwards. When the bones of his knees hit the marble floor, it’s with a loud _crack_ that makes even Sebastian wince behind his mask. Dull, angry pain spreads out from his kneecaps. Sebastian balls his fists at his sides and bites his lip - refusing the urge to curse. James is still smiling. Sebastian can’t remember if he’s drawn breath since the man moved. Around them, the party wheels on uninterrupted; as if there isn’t a single remarkable thing about a six-nine blonde soldier on his knees for two slight civilians.

Sebastian’s mind is wandering.

He realizes this when two cold fingers touch lightly under his chin, and everything snaps back into unforgiving, ice-cold focus. There’s a very light pressure. Sebastian tilts his head back.

It’s the first time he meets the eyes of James Moriarty, and the last time he ever craves the war. Those terrifying, fascinating, impossible black-hole eyes stare at Sebastian, into Sebastian, through Sebastian, and Sebastian is a butterfly pinned for dissection. He’s a lamb throwing himself forward to the slaughter. Moth, flame. Lemming, cliff.

"I do so like presents," James Moriarty says thoughtfully, his voice a deep rumble like thunder or gunfire, and underneath his touch, Sebastian shudders.


End file.
